Bright eyed Spider
by FlyingLovegood123
Summary: Spiders are killed on sight by many humans. Perhaps that's why Sherlock likes spiders so much. His entire life is one big web, each part conncted to thousands of others in a never ending circle.
1. Chapter 1 The Spider

Bright-eyed Spider

Juleslove3000 (who reviewed 'The Folder') suggested: "You should do a story of Sherlock's childhood and how John has positively influenced Sherlock's adulthood..."

I DO NOT, NOR WILL I **EVER, EVER, EVER** OWN SHELROCK. This amazing fandom belongs to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, and any other Sherlock Holmes-affiliated people in the world. I just like playing around!

This is also my first chapter fanfiction. So bear with me!

Chapter 1: The Spider

Spiders are stomped, smashed, crushed. It was naturally ingrained in many people to kill spiders on sight, which is perhaps why Sherlock likes spiders so much.

He is different, he knows.

It didn't used to be so bad, not when it was just him and mummy and their servants at home. Mycroft was away at school for most of Sherlock's early life, and Sherlock grew up playing with himself. There was a little grove of trees just past the garden (which was full of flowers and things that had no _purpose_ save for feeding the bees) where Sherlock used to go and spend days and days. His mummy never worried; she was quite used to the Holmes' way, and only sighed and made Ms. Bonham, his nanny, go out once or twice a day to bring Sherlock food and fresh clothes and see if he was hurt.

Sherlock built a tree house in an ash tree. He designed it himself, and only had to have a professional come and build it. It had two sprawling stories (for the Holmes estate was quite old and the ash tree was quite enormous) and had a roof over only some parts. Ropes and ladders jutted down through the canopy, which Sherlock could hoist up if he was in a rotten mood with mummy or Ms. Bonham. On the top story there was a workbench with tools and magnifying glasses, and a real telescope (which was his father's old one) and large cases for specimens. There were also a few bookshelves full of books on plants and insects and rocks (they were all high school or college level—Sherlock never had had time for silly children's novels).

The bottom floor was entirely devoted to his whims of fancy.

Some days he wanted to be a police officer and so he would run over to the large box under a branch (so as to not get damaged in a storm) and grab out cheesy policemen suits that anyone could get at a costume store as well as handcuffs, radios, and a little dart-gun. He'd then descend and pretend to chase bad guys, which often ended in a high speed car chase in which the bad guy wrecks himself and Sherlock gets to examine the body. Sherlock had an entire book on anatomy, which he read many times.

Other times he wanted to be an explorer and would grab rope and a small blunt knife and trek around the grove of trees, collecting bugs and plants and running up to the top of the tree to his second floor and spent the next five hours dissecting and cataloguing everything he found. He kept a journal full of observations on bees (which he found quite fascinating) and more journals for plants, and insects. Sometimes he'd fight tigers in India (while reading everything he could about the plant life and animal habitation of India) or he'd go to the far distant planes of Swaziland and discover new animals or lost civilizations.

When Mycroft visited for a whole summer when he was six, Sherlock had decided to be a pirate and ran about with his knife stealing his mummy's jewelry and raiding the pantry. He learned many swearwords, and how to write and read maps. He stole his brother homework more than once and buried it, hiding while his brother tried to find the missing paperwork and shooting him with his dart-gun.

Still other times he wanted to be a detective. This was helped a great deal by his deceased father, who owned a number of scientific instruments (which mummy let him borrow because he always said being a detective is an exact art and he ought to have the proper tools). He'd dress up, putting on his father's old clothes, such as his favorite deer-stalker hat (his father had loved to hunt) and a pipe (which he was never allowed to fill because mummy wouldn't let him.) He'd go around looking for murders or robberies and scoff at policemen (because without him pretending to be one, they were utterly hopeless).

When Sherlock was eight, mummy grew ill and Mycroft came home while Sherlock was in his tree-house. When Sherlock saw his older brother coming near, he rolled up all of his ladders and ropes (though Mycroft was quite rubbish at sports and would never have been able to climb a rope.)

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed as he came upon the trunk of the tree. "Please do not fool with me now. I have something I need to discuss with you. It is of the utmost importance."

"What?" Sherlock called down irritably while leaning precariously over the edge of his tree house.

"Please come down, Sherlock." Mycroft replied. Even at the age of fifteen, he radiated smugness and superiority. Sherlock resisted the urge to grind his teeth as he climbed down a thick rope.

"Mummy is ill, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly a little while later as they sat down on a bench in the gardens. The stone bench resided under a sprawling beech tree, and had a fountain of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, standing on her shell.

"I know!" Sherlock interrupted rudely, staring intently at Venus. He didn't need Mycroft to tell him mummy might not make it, which was why Mycroft was here. Sherlock wasn't stupid.

But Sherlock didn't want mummy to die.

"Yes," Mycroft said placidly and he continued; "Mummy and I have been discussing the state of things, and a great deal of money must go to mummy's doctor to afford the medicine she needs. We have decided that dropping several servants would be for the best, and that means—"

"You're sending me to school!" Sherlock interrupted again. He felt horror rising up. School meant other children. School meant he couldn't be free to do as he liked. School meant he'd have to interact with other people. Several years ago he had read some books on school, and had decided it was the worst invention that mankind had come up with.

"We are." Mycroft said. "You start in three weeks."

Sherlock felt his mouth open in protest and he started rising from the bench. Mycroft raised his hand and successfully shushed Sherlock.

"It has already been taken care of, Sherlock." Mycroft said, his tone hard. "Don't argue. Mummy cannot handle it."

After Mycroft left, Sherlock wandered about in shock. He wandered past his mummy's precious daffodils, which were the flowers Sherlock's father courted her with. He wandered through the orchards, the apple trees, the cherry trees, the orange trees . . . He stopped, eyes landing on a web.

It was the web of an Orb-Weaver Spider, or _Araneus spp_. It was a common spider, with the classical circular web. He had dissected several already, notes on the web shapes and the distinctive features also rested in the simple black journal. Sherlock watched the spider as it moved about the web. The Orb-Weaver Spider is not a venomous spider, though it is one of the most common spiders in the world.

Sherlock felt an ache in his heart. The spider, scuttling on its web looking for stupid bugs, could rebuild its web. Sherlock was about to go among the stupid bugs and he would most likely never be able to rebuild his web.

Stupid wasn't contagious, was it?

The next three weeks past in a blur, which was unusual for Sherlock because he could normally keep track of time very well. But before he knew it he was standing alone outside of his new school.

It was a large, square building, which Sherlock hated on sight. The grounds were quite small compared to his back yard, with only five trees. In a fenced off area there was a simple metal slide, five empty swings, a teeter-totter, and a 'merry-go-round (he sneered at the name—could no one come up with a better one? Well, if one considered puking their last meal up 'merry' . . . Sherlock wondered if he could get a sample of the vomit and find out what that child had last ate.) Children were laughing and running around waiting for the bell, and doing their best (it seemed) to annoy Sherlock by being incredibly boring. Girls nearby were skipping rope, and boys huddle in corners, whispering or tossing a ball casually back and forth. Sherlock wandered over to an oak tree, which had a plastic bench wrapped around it, and sat resolutely down, pulling out "_Flora of the British Isles"_by A.R., Tutin.

He read, trying to ignore all of the children around him. A few girls tried to converse with him, as well as one or two shy boys, but Sherlock glared at them and each beat a hasty retreat. Finally three boys wandered over to the bench, seemingly oblivious to the glares they were receiving from the bench's only occupant.

"What ch'ya reading?" A boy who seemed to be the leader asked. Sherlock sized him up, having a good eye for deducing people. The boy was nine, almost ten (he had been held back a year, most likely third grade, but it could have been second) he had a fairly rich father who was a drunk and a mother who had run away. He was used to getting what he wanted; and Sherlock would have to wait and see what they wanted from him. His hair was a dusty blonde, his eyes a dull hazel, with plump cheeks and a scowl.

"A book." He replied coolly. While he might be out of touch with what the rest of the human race was doing, he was fairly certain that most eight year olds did not read college level books on flora. He wasn't sure most eight years olds even read past high school level. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to pick a fight with this idiot yet, and decided to wait.

"Yeah, I can see tha'." The boy sneered. "But what's tuh book about?"

"Plants," Sherlock replied, eye brows rising. "I'm sure even a dullard like you can see the plants on the cover."

The boy's face flushed. "Wha' did ch'ya just say?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. "It's '_What_ did _you_ just say.'"

"Wha'?"

"It's _what_!" Sherlock snapped. He once again congratulated himself on memorizing the Oxford English dictionary when he was five; clearly it would be easier to get through school when he had mastered the English language while many children were still stuck at pronouncing 'what' correctly.

The boy seemed at a loss of words as he glanced back at his companions, likely hoping to pick up cues on where to go with this conversation. They looked just as lost as he was, so the boy turned back.

"Wha's your name?" He demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied. "And yours?"

"_Sherlock?_" The boy sneered. "What kind of a name is that?"

"An old English one." Sherlock replied at once. "If you're curious, look up the definition yourself. In the meantime, I believe it is polite to, when asking one's name, give yours in return."

"Bobby Olhouser." The boy replied gruffly. "An' I don't like your attitude."

"Congratulations." Sherlock drawled, a tone he had picked up from Mycroft. "You know some three syllable words. Your daddy must be _so_ proud."

As he expected, Bobby's face flushed slightly and his chin rose defiantly.

"Well," Sherlock continued after observing this reaction, "he would if he got his nose out of the alcohol bottle for more than five minutes. Can't be your mum; she's in Surrey. So perhaps you could show off to your father's mistress . . .?"

Sherlock was not expecting the punch that followed his statement, and the only thing that saved him from more blows was the bell. Bobby stormed into the building, and Sherlock realized (not without some glee) that he had made his first enemy. Just like in those stories he had read!

He calmly packed his bags as the other children eyed him wearily. He tucked "_Flora of the British Isles"_ beside an empty journal which he had brought to record his experiments in. While he could no longer make his interesting experiments anymore whenever he felt like it, he could certainly make experiments that might determine the leading cause in stupidity . . .

His glee faded as he realized the teachers had no idea what to do with him. He was clearly beyond his grade and should be taught by a private tutor who could keep up with his intellect, not a public school. He moped in the back of the classroom day in and day out, never answering a single question unless forced to do so. He aced all of his quizzes and tests, and yet forgot everything promptly. His writing and reading abilities were beyond even some of the teachers, and he often reported the teachers whole life story in front of the class (one teacher even got fired, because Sherlock found out she had kidnapped her best friends daughter because said best friend had slept with her husband. He was able to prove it, and the teacher was packing her bags the next day.)

Bobby and his two cronies, Victor and Mark, often tried to best him, but Sherlock (after seeing a karate movie his mother insisted that he watch) was practiced in the martial arts. Bobby gave up after a while, though Victor Trevor seemed to still be interested. Sherlock did not understand why the boy—two years his senior—kept looking at him like that. A mixture of admiration, fear, and . . . something else. Respect? Sherlock didn't know.

Many people gave the opinion he need a more creative outlet, and so Mycroft arranged for Sherlock to study the violin. Sherlock was at first wary, but after hearing his instructor play decided that the violin was an amazing instrument and threw himself into the study, struggling for his child fingers to reach the proper notes.

But Sherlock was like a spider. It was naturally ingrained in many people to kill spiders on sight, and Sherlock's brilliance was what made him a spider. People can't deal with that sort of brilliance, and many times his classmates, teachers, and principles tried to make him normal—or, in other words, dull and stupid.

But spiders always repair the damage to their webs, and Sherlock kept bouncing back.


	2. Chapter 2 The Poison

Chapter 2: The Poison

**Hi guys—please, please, **_**please**_** review, you have no idea how much it means to me and motivates me! I'm a new author—your feedback gives me the heart to go on!**

When people think 'spider', most immediately associate them with poison, like the cliché poison bottle, the green liquid with the skull and crossbones in front. But not all spiders are poisonous and Sherlock understands this. Spiders, after all, have many ways they kill.

He was fifteen now, and was back in school. He was still ahead of everyone else, and found school to be so _boring._ He often frequented the science laboratories, learning all that he could about science and poisons.

A man named Mr. Burns (Widower, has one child in the Navy, loves tea and coffee, and hikes often) was the only teacher to put up with him for any length of time. He seemed to marvel at Sherlock's mind, all of the intricate pathways and connections. Burns could not, of course, keep up with Sherlock, but he still kept at it, trying to learn. Sherlock respected him for that, and often indulged Burns' questions.

Mycroft had gotten himself elected for a 'minor' position in the government; apparently he had pulled all of the right strings and was now being trained up to basically be the British government, with all of England at his control. This did nothing to improve his smug superiority, and Sherlock found himself grinding his teeth more than once when Mycroft visited him.

Mummy had gotten better over the years, though the lasting effects of her illness still wracked her body some days. She still lived in their old manor with only a handful of servants (many of whom stayed out of loyalty to the family; some of their family had been employed by the Holmes' for several centuries.) to keep the manor in working order. Mummy had decided school was a good idea in the long run for Sherlock and had kept him there, despite his protests and arguments. So Sherlock still went to school, much to his disappointment and annoyance.

Thus Sherlock passed through school, ignoring his classmates and teachers as they, in turn, ignored him.

Mr. Burns died in a car wreck when Sherlock was almost sixteen, and Sherlock realized how much Burns had stuck up for him to the other teachers. Many, instead of tolerating him, flat out ignored him. While this was not a particularly major setback (he wanted to associate with them less than they wanted to with him), this had one drawback.

Victor Trevor had managed to go to the same school as Sherlock and had spread the word about his detective skills. Many people now hesitantly approached Sherlock with problems. Many were dull and stupid—'who took my wallet', 'is my boyfriend cheating on me?'—but some required the assistance of teachers. Like Margaret Peters who wanted to know who the people blackmailing her were. This had required Sherlock to stay after school after lock-up. He had tried asking the teachers to let him stay, but they had ignored him. So, gritting his teeth in frustration, he had stayed after anyway and caught the blackmailers. Peters had tried to pay him, but he had refused. Hers had been the most interesting case yet, seeing as the blackmailers were the drug lords of the school (they had all been expelled.)

Sherlock got into a University at the same time everyone else his age did. He knew Mycroft was disappointed (Mycroft had gotten in two years earlier), but frankly Sherlock didn't care.

Many of his classmates went to the same university, like Peters, Trevor, and several others. One man named Sebastian Wilkes approached Sherlock more than once. Wilkes had family power and wealth, and had offered Sherlock a little 'job'; put his detective skills at Wilkes' disposal. And he would be paid a considerable amount. Sherlock took one look at him and deduced every single scandal Wilkes' had been involved in. He left Wilkes rooted to the spot, speechless. Wilkes had handled him like a ticking bomb after that (not that Sherlock minded) but still attempted to gain Sherlock's observation skills for his own uses. Sherlock watched his attempts with amusement.

Margaret Peters was still hesitant, but she put up with Sherlock and offered her services whenever she could. Sherlock watched with amazement; he had done one favor for her, while despairing at her intelligence, and yet here she was offering to help him by some miss-placed sense of duty. But he never said that out loud; he used it. Peters often gathered information for Sherlock, by either talking to the teachers (who seemed to adore her) or to other students. Peters was the millhouse for gossip; she never participated, but she still heard _everything._ And the best thing; she never made any moves on Sherlock (oblivious as he might seem, Sherlock did know when a woman or man was trying to 'hit' on him.) So Sherlock tolerated Peters.

Sherlock could not see the difference between university and school. Both had dull teachers, both were to slow for him.

Which was probably why he agreed to follow Victor Trevor when he said he had something that made him forget his boredom.

Victor Trevor had grown into a short, dark haired youth. He always had a constant growth of stubble on his chin and cheeks, which were ruddy from all of the alcohol he consumed. His dark eyes were deep set, his chin broad. He had a thuggish look to him, with his meaty hands swinging down. He was far shorter than Sherlock, and could sneak quite expertly. He had come twitching, eyes wild, beckoning for Sherlock to come with him.

Here Sherlock was now, crouching in the shadows, waiting for the CCTV cameras to face the other way. Victor was in front of him, in black jeans and a black shirt. He was breathing heavily, eyes darting about. Sherlock thought he had a pretty good idea of why Victor was acting this way.

They darted across the grounds. Sherlock had finished all of his growth spurts, and now stood above six foot. His face had hollowed out, leaving his cheekbones higher than normal. He was very pale—almost as pale as a vampire (which he had read about when he was younger, desperate for more enemies to fight). All in all . . . he looked other-worldly.

But now Sherlock's height caused him to bend almost double, running after Victors much shorter frame.

They paused besides another building, which Victor motioned for him to be quiet. It was an old warehouse, used for storing equipment and text books. Victor pushed open the door and ushered Sherlock into the drug den.

Sherlock was at first wary, knowing what drugs could do to you. They could destroy his brain, tear it to pieces. But Sherlock's brain was doing that, anyway.

Sherlock's brain was quite odd, he'd admit. It _needed_ work. When idle, it sat and drew him into fits of boredom.

The boredom was almost an illness. It could cause him to seize up, eyes closing of their own accord. Inside the folds of their own mind, many people might just think about random, silly things. But Sherlock's brain didn't do that. It didn't want useless things to ponder at. It yearned for work, for a puzzle, a problem. It wanted something _new._ So it sucked him into darkness. The darkness scared Sherlock because there was nothing. He was completely alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to. It made him panic, and he would do anything, _anything at all,_ to escape the darkness.

He would kill to escape the boredom.

Not that he _would_ kill. He was quite capable; he knew how to use the sword, he knew martial arts, and he knew poisons like the back of his hand. But by now, at the age of nineteen, he was getting desperate. At home he could conduct experiments of his choosing, and explore. But school was suffocating him, and Sherlock _needed_ a good distraction.

Perhaps drugs were the answer.

Drugs killed the brain, but his brain was already killing itself.

And so Sherlock accepted to cocaine Victor handed him.

Sherlock did his best to hide his addiction. He loved the bliss that the drugs induced. His mind went blank. There was nothing and better yet . . . no darkness. Sherlock knew Mycroft, with his big nose and ever expanding waistband, would not approve. So he hid his addiction, stealing away in the dark of the night with Victor to smoke weed or pot, to giggle helplessly as they took in more and more of the numbing concoctions.

But Mycroft found out, of course. Sherlock could not hide from Mycroft's resources forever.

Mycroft paid him a visit and chewed him out. Sherlock sat, mutinous, under his brother's rage. He had gotten fatter, Sherlock noticed with glee. His face was quite chubby. He was now carrying a black umbrella, which he hooked around his arm as he talked.

"Sherlock, will you _listen_ to me?" Mycroft spat after five minutes of Sherlock not paying any attention what so ever. Sherlock flopped comically on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"You want me to stop doing drugs." He recited dully. "You'll tell mummy, and mummy will be very disappointed. You are disappointed; this is not how father would have wanted me to turn out." He glanced over at Mycroft. "You could try to be a little _less_ obvious."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said seriously. "You do know what will happen to your body if you continue doing drugs."

"Of course." Sherlock scoffed. He knew full well he was destroying his body; but it made no difference. Either he would destroy his body through drugs, or, eventually, his mind would eat itself.

"Then _stop._" Mycroft ordered. "You are my only brother; do not presume I will let this continue. Clean up your act by the end of this week or so help me I will put you into a Rehabilitation center." With that he took his leave, his treat hanging clear.

In a Rehabilitation center, Sherlock would go mad or worse—succumb to the boredom that so often plagued his mind. A Rehabilitation center would be far worse than telling mummy; far worse than anything. It would destroy him faster than the drugs he bought.

Sherlock, as requested, cleaned up his act. He thought about his dilemma throughout the night (he had trained himself to need far less sleep than most people; sleep reminded him too much of the boredom) and eventually came to the conclusion of separating himself from Victor. With Victor the temptation would be so much; the boy practically _bathed_ in the stench of the plants he smoked. It was a wonder the teachers did not notice. But then again; they were all incredibly dull and monotonous.

Throughout the week Sherlock got rid of his cigarettes, his drugs, and the alcohol. He severed ties with Victor (who was quite drunk at the time, so Sherlock was fairly sure the message did not get across.)

And slowly Sherlock started getting rid of the poison that had crept into his life.

But all poison has its lasting effects.


	3. The Dusty Corner

Chapter 3: The dusty corner

**This one was a little difficult for me to write, so I hope you enjoy it!**

Spiders usually live in forgotten corners, where humans or animals like cats or dogs won't kill them. They tuck themselves away from all of the hustle and bustle of human life. Sherlock had to immerse himself in that hustle and bustle each and every day.

As soon as he got out of University, Sherlock pondered on what he was going to do with his life. Peters had shown what could be done with doing a few favors every now and and again.

He had no interest in in a job; all the jobs around were dull. He could, probably, be a police officer, but the police officers were even stupider than the ones in his fantasy. He turned away in disgust.

He had known from a very young age that he wanted to go into the law enforcement to some degree. He had taken classes in university that would help with that. Now he would just have to find the perfect position to be in law enforcement.

Soon he decided that he wanted to be a consulting detective. It wasn't a real job; but then again, Sherlock was never was good at picking normal jobs. Besides, as a consultant, he could work with the police but not work _under_ the police.

He knew actually _committing_ crimes would be far more interesting.

When committing crimes, you could choose a perfect victim. So many people make the mistake of choosing someone with whom they have had a vendetta against. But Sherlock is not attached, he does not have friends. He could choose anyone at all (the woman who walks her dog past his crummy flat at 2:00 PM each day, the meaty man behind the counter at the TV store down the block, or one of the strangers passing by every day.) and there would be nothing that could connect him with the victim, nothing at all.

But Sherlock could never bring himself to go that far, to take that last leap.

He would writhe in the boredom (which came often with nothing to do and without the drugs) and he would think _maybe now . . ._ it would be so easy. The poisons he made were _right there_, or his sword was hanging on the wall _over there,_ and there's some unwittingly dull person who would be cried over and mourned by equally dull people . . .

And that, perhaps, is the thought that caught Sherlock. If he died, who'd cry over his body? Mummy was having yet another relapse of her illness and this time she might not make it. More servants had left; the little pay could no longer hold them at the Holmes' estate. Mycroft would mourn and then move on; Holmes' did not ponder over things like that. But Sherlock was always different; he prided himself on that. He was different from the rest of the Holmes', different from the rest of the humans.

So no one would cry over his body.

The dull humans had people. They may be horribly stupid, but they had someone who would cry.

Why did Sherlock care so much about that? He tried to find a reason for a very long time, ever since he heard about the Carl Powers case (the case that really pushed him towards his law enforcement career), and he saw a picture in the papers.

It was Carl's family and friends. And they were all crying. The photo had captured Mrs. Powers sobbing helplessly in her husband's arm (he had been cheating on his wife, but Sherlock could see he would now stay faithful.) His friends were torn, some were crying, others were white with shock and stone silent. Sherlock, of course, did not care for them. He had never met them; why would he be affected by people he had never met and never would meet? But it had got him thinking.

Because Sherlock is not a sociopath, as he might claim. He hides his emotions away because he simply never learned what to do with him. So the strange ache in his chest barely warranted a glance. It was meaningless, but Sherlock wondered if it had something to do with his fixation on nobody crying. He meant nothing to the world now, and it is deeply engrained in all Holmes' to _mean_ something to the world. Mycroft was getting there; he was practically the British government. His father meant something to the select group he chose to hang out with, and to the economy (for he was quite wealthy, though he had lost quite a considerable amount before he died.) But Sherlock meant nothing. He was just the younger brother; the addict.

Sherlock spent four years amassing his homeless network. He did favors, he talked with them, and he solved cases. And suddenly there were hundreds of the homeless at his disposal.

He traveled, too. He visited France, Russia, Greece, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, China, the United States, and dozens of other countries. He learned several major languages and several that caught his attention. He studied until he could speak, write, and read fluently. He found it immensely helpful.

He also helped along the way; won favors. There was Angelo in London; there was Raz in Liverpool (he later moved to London.) One he remembered in particular was Mrs. Hudson. She had gotten herself married to a serial killer and they had moved to Florida. Mrs. Hudson had found a raped woman with her throat silted in her closet when she went to grab the cleaning supplies. She sounded quite calm to Sherlock over the phone, and when he appeared on the door step, led him to the closet, which was exactly the way she had found it.

"I didn't want to tamper with the evidence." She told Sherlock. "I read on your website you looked at the little details people over look." Sherlock had thanked her, got her husband sentenced to death, and took his leave after having tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson and the insistence that were he to need anything, he would call her.

The website had been incredibly helpful. He had designed it, and anyone who found it usually called him up for a case.

After seven years abroad, he settled back in London.

There, he took the usual dull cases, trying to escape his mounting boredom. He solved case after case, wanting to desperately go back to the soothing numbness of the drugs. He could remember, with painful clarity, the bliss it caused him, the darkness without being _that_ darkness.

Then, two years later, he met Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was by accident, really. He had been walking by a building near Chagford Street. He had noticed that there were several police cars outside and officers were directing people away from the scene. Smirking, Sherlock slipped past—after all, the art of disguise is knowing how to conceal oneself even in the open. Inside he found officers tearing about. He slipped past, gleeful at how easy it really was. Upon entering the crime scene, Sherlock found a man lying dead. Sherlock deduced his whole life story. He was a drunk, he loved poker. He had one bastard child, and his aunt was going to write him out of her will.

"Donovan, run his credit cards. We need to find all we can about this man!" A silver haired man called out. He was married, had two—no, three—children. His wife cheated on him, and he knew but tried to ignore it in hopes it would go away. He was a very unhappy man.

"You know," Sherlock drawled, "You could just _observe._ By looking at this man, I can tell he had a child with another woman, most likely one he met through an acquaintance. That might be through his poker playing background. His aunt is threatening to write him out of her will. Conclusion, the man who he plays poker with found out about his wife, and was further enraged when he saw this man cheating to get more money, most likely to blow it off on the alcohol he buys."

The entire room was staring at him like he did something odd. He snorted and spat "It's obvious, isn't it?" When all he got was silence, he raised his hands and started pointing. "His eyes are yellow, so an alcoholic. He has a letter in his back pocket that's very formal. A mother would not write that formally, so more likely it's an aunt, so his family is dead. The slant and style of the writing shows she's angry. What could an aunt be angry about? More likely his gambling habits, or his drinking habits. Hence, most likely writing him out of her will. I can tell he play's cards because of a receipt—Park Towers casino. He's mid-forties, so most likely he plays poker. The affair—next to the letter from the aunt is a photograph. There's a child and a mother. Clearly not his wife; she has to be fifteen years younger than him, at least, and that kind of marriage is strongly discourage now a days. But she has a wedding ring; it's expensive, not something this man, who has heavy debts, could afford. So she's married, yet that's his child. So he had a child with her. Balance probability means that that woman's husband knows this man, so he and the woman met at a poker game, most likely."

"Who the hell are you?" The silver haired man asked. His mouth had dropped open at Sherlock's long speech, and he looked astounded.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said curtly before once more studying the body.

"How did you get in here?" The man asked, striding to get in front of Sherlock and the body.

Sherlock shot him a patronizing stare "For police officers, you can be very unobservant."

"Get out!" The man shooed Sherlock away. Sherlock shrugged, looked longingly at the body, but thought that if this was what the man got into, he would try to get in the man's good graces. Then he could get to more murders. Sherlock did, however, pause at the door.

"You'll find I'm right on at least most of the accounts." He told the man. "Feel free to contact me again."

"Why would I hire an amateur?" The man groused.

"Because I can help you." Sherlock smirked.

"I know nothing about you. For all I know you could be the murderer!"

"But I'm not, and I know a lot about you, Detective Inspector. By the way, your wife is planning to sneak out again tonight after your children go to bed. Good day." And with that, Sherlock slipped out leaving a room of police gaping.

It took a while, but eventually Lestrade started going to Sherlock. He did it grudgingly; Sherlock took every chance to remind them that they had pitiful intellect. Lestrade provided a world of interesting cases. He put up with Sherlock because he had to, because he needed him.

He and Lestrade worked together for five years. Sherlock held a grudging respect for the man. Lestrade was slightly less irritating and stupid as the rest of the clots he worked with.

Sherlock was thrown out of his newest flat yet again. Honestly, the owner seemed to think frozen liver was against some bizarre set of rules. Besides, Sherlock needed the liver because the case he had been working on the man's live had been pierced by a blunt object with dull serrated edges. Sherlock packed up, and went to St. Bart's to cool off. There he ran into Stamford (he had solved a minor, dull case for the man. Stamford had been getting anonymous hate mail and Sherlock was able to clear up who was sending it) and mentioned his dilemma to the man. Stamford's friends were doctors, and if Sherlock was going to continue to be a consulting detective, which could be (he was told) a very disgusting business, he needed a flatmate that could handle the experiments he did without having a fit. A doctor would be good at that.

So Stamford came back after lunch with an ex-army doctor.

And so enters probably the best time of Sherlock's life. He and John were at first wary of each other, testing boundaries (which could be seen at Angelo's later the next night), but soon he and John fell into a familiar pattern.

Sherlock sat down to think (refusing to eat, much to John's frustration) after the events at the pool where Carl Powers died and realized . . .

John _is_ the best thing that came into his life.

Many mistake them for boyfriends, but that is of course ludicrous. John is, Sherlock supposes, handsome in his own way, but Sherlock feels no _lust_. Just the dependable feeling of companionship, that's all that existed between Sherlock and John.

The next year Sherlock fell. The cold air rushed around him while the back of the lorry waited for him. He fell, hitched a ride in the truck among the plastic bags, and attended his own funeral later that week.

And as he observed John when John was saying his last goodbyes, he realized something.

John was crying over his death. He may not actually be dead, for his heart was beating and blood hummed in his veins, but in every other sense he was dead. And John Watson was crying for him.

Spiders inhabit dusty, dark corners. Sherlock, for most of his life could not understand why. But his falls showed him that hiding in the dusty corners can allow one to spin webs unhindered . . . or tear them apart.


	4. The Web

Chapter 4: The Web

**Okay, never mind. Two posts in one day, why not? I loved writing this story, and I hoped you loved reading it! Drop me a review, please! This was really hard for me to write. Character deaths, so you've been warned.**

Spiders weave webs. Everyone knows this. The webs are their homes; they live on the webs, kill and eat on the webs, they settle down on the webs . . . and Sherlock's web is quite large.

Sherlock was now ninety-three years old. He and John had moved out into the country seven years ago and now they kept bees. Sherlock had studied bees when he was younger, but never like this. He found it . . . relaxing, soothing. It kept the boredom away, and the only darkness he knew now is that of sleep.

He settled back in his chair on the porch. He steepled his fingers like he so often had when he was younger and stared at the chessboard between himself and John. After years of practice, John had gotten fairly decent at chess. Sherlock moved his pawn forward silently, each old man lost in their own thoughts.

When Sherlock had fallen all those years ago, he came back three years later and John welcomed him back—after breaking his nose and blackening his eye. But Sherlock had _expected_ that. Really, he had. John was married, and when Sherlock moved back into 221b Baker Street, John didn't move with him. John's wife (Mary, what a dull, common name) had realized John missed Sherlock. She was his wife; but sometimes friendship runs deeper than marriage. She hadn't divorced him; she didn't have the time. She had wound up with a bullet through her brain when Sherlock dragged John into yet another adventure. Their marriage had lasted three and a half years.

John had been devastated, of course. He had loved her. But he moved back in with Sherlock and it was like old times, albeit with new, fresh scars. They solved crimes, John blogged about it, and Sherlock did his best to forget his pants whenever his brother came calling.

But time marched on, and soon threads of Sherlock's web faded into dust.

First to go was Mrs. Hudson. She was quite old already and when Sherlock turned fifty one, she passed away naturally (not how she expected to go, she had joked with Sherlock the night before they found her cold, a smile on her face. She expected to go along with one of his mad adventures, perhaps through gunfire or poisoning.) Sherlock mourned, of course. She was like a particularly beloved aunt. John mourned, too. They visited Mrs. Hudson's grave, which was located in the same cemetery as Sherlock's had been.

Next was Gregory Lestrade. He was older than John (who was, in turn, one and a half years older than Sherlock), and so his heart attacks was not unexpected. There were three, and on the second he seemed resigned and told Sherlock and John it had been, no matter the uneven edges, a pleasure working with him. That had been the last they saw of him until the funeral. Sherlock and John both spoke words about him, Sherlock trying to keep his insults down to a minimum.

Molly was next; the little girl who tried so hard to help and saved Sherlock from a real fall. Sherlock had been confronting a killer outside of St. Bart's (he was now sixty three, but still acted like a four year old at times) and he had left John (again) and expected to get chewed out for it. He hadn't noticed the killer's accomplice sneaking up behind him, too caught up in his deductions. Molly had been leaving, and rushed over and jumped on the man, and he stabbed her. John arrived seconds late and dispatched both of the killers while Sherlock looked over Molly's failing body to see if she could be saved. She couldn't. She clutched his hand and he indulged her; he owed her, after all. But he did not expect her, with her last remaining strength, to lean up a kiss him on the lips. It was brief and light—just a fluttering thing around the lips.

"Thank you," She whispered as she lay down again. "Thank you for walking into my life. It's been a pleasure knowing and working with you, Sherlock." Sherlock, realizing how much this meant to Molly, who always did her best to hide her affections, stared at her with his impossible eyes. He softened them; Molly was dying to save him. He owed her yet again. She smiled and her eyes became deserted of life. John didn't say anything as Molly Hooper fled the world, though he did cry a few tears at her grave.

Throughout the years Sherlock heard of Angelo succumbing to AIDS, and Raz being gunned down in a street fight. He even knew Irene Adler (_The_ Woman) died when she texted him (yet again) for the last time. _Good bye, Sherlock_ she wrote and later Sherlock heard she was stabbed. There was no way she could have survived, for the video he managed to get ahold of clearly showed her (her measurements) and her falling with a glint of steel in her chest.

And then Mycroft died.

Sherlock was seventy six when Mycroft texted him for the last time. Sherlock pulled his phone out in annoyance and glanced at it.

GOODBYE, SHERLOCK. MH

He froze for a fraction of a second before yelling at John and grabbing his coat and scarf. He ran down the stairs as fast as his body would let him before sliding into the black car that was (of course) waiting for him.

Even dying, Mycroft looked smug. He sat stiffly in his bed. He was bald now, and still slightly over-weight. He told them he had cancer; they caught it too late and it was one where they had yet to discover a cure. He thanked John for looking after Sherlock, and it was for the first time Sherlock saw his brother use any semblance of real emotion. He looked completely and utterly sincere when he thanked John. John nodded, gave Mycroft a smile and his goodbyes, and left the two brothers alone.

"Brother," Mycroft said softly, and Sherlock felt his gaze rise to meet his brothers.

"Are you about to get sentimental on me?" He asked.

"Yes." Mycroft replied. "I might as well; after all, I might never see you again."

"Or you'll haunt me in the afterlife." Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft chuckled a bit. "I shall not disappoint you, then, if there is such a thing as the afterlife. Sherlock, I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I hope you can forgive me." Both brothers knew what he referred to; Sherlock would not have had to fall and alter his life had Mycroft not sold him out to Moriarty. Mycroft had not apologized then; so he was doing so now.

"You are forgiven, Mycroft." Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded, satisfied and his ridged face relaxed. He breathed out once, his eyes closed, and the man who was the British Nation left the world.

There are now four graves Sherlock and John visit.

First is Mrs. Hudson's. Her gravestone was made of Balmoral Red Granite. Her name, birthdate, and death date were placed on it. Sherlock had written on it _'I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper'_ because both John and Sherlock loved teasing her about it. It was not officially part of the grave; they refreshed the paint every time they visited the site.

Lestrade's gravestone was made of Larvikite. His name and birth and death dates also were engraved on the stones. His family had the family crest engraved on the stone as well as the family motto. Sherlock and John (well, John had) told the gravestone when Anderson and Donovan passed away, Donovan from a series of strokes and Anderson from one of his mistresses getting tired of him cheating on him and bashing his brains out. Sherlock insulted all of them and laughed.

Molly's was made of sandstone, with little angels carved on it. Her family had all died off, so John had taken care of the gravestone. Below it he had put_; "A loyal friend is hard to see; she died for her friends and is finally free."_ Sherlock thought, if he were feeling particularly sentimental, that the saying fitted Molly perfectly. He had not, nor would he ever have thought little Molly Hooper would die for him. Perhaps he was getting soft, in his old age, he mused.

Mycroft's gravestone was made of the same stone as Sherlock's. It just had his name. Sherlock had designed it, and he and John thought that as the man was invisible to the world in his life, only his name would be known in death.

So Sherlock and John, at the age of eighty six and eighty seven respectively, moved out into the country coming up to London three or four times a year to visit the four graves. Time passed and the two friends lived quite comfortably. People had long since given up saying that they were a couple, and they stayed flatmates (or housemates now) in the country. The little house was stuffed with Sherlock's experiments and there were five bee hives that Sherlock occupied himself with. John yelled at Sherlock for putting body parts in random places and shooting guns when he got too bored (but he never argued against the violin, as Sherlock kept making more and more compositions that described both of their lives perfectly.) All in all, they were happy.

Sherlock and John continued playing their game of chess into the night until Sherlock won, smirking. John grabbed his walking stick (which he needed for real this time) and Sherlock stood shakily up. They both hobbled down the steps for their customary evening stroll. Their walks had to be shortened as the years flew by, and by now the most they could do was walk to the grove of trees a hundred yards away and back.

They wandered through the fields until John got about to talking.

"I feel our time is near." He said matter of factly, his voice cracked with age. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied. His voice was still deep, thought it, too, betrayed his age. His hair was pure silver (which John grumbled about because his hair was more of a dark greyish) and wrinkles lined his once smooth face. His eyes were still piercingly sharp, though. John was not much better off; he had wrinkles, too and he had to hunch over as he stood which irritated the old solider.

"Mm," John limped sagely along. "Bet I'll outlive you."

"You will not!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm younger; I'll out live _you_."

He and John took one look at each other and burst out laughing.

"Sh, Sherlock, we can't laugh about our deaths!"

"You're the one who brought it up!" This reminded them of their first case; where they were laughing about the death of Jeff Hope, the cabbie. They burst into another fit of laughter and turned to head home.

The government had a lady check up on them once a week (Mycroft had left instructions in his will, of course), and two days later she found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson dead.

They had obviously seen it coming; they were sitting in their old chairs, John's plump red one and Sherlock's stiff dark green one. Their beds were un-slept in. John had a cup of tea near him. Sherlock was clutching his violin, bow in hand, and seemed to have just finished playing a simple, sweet melody. They looked to be sleeping, their faces were peaceful.

The old skull on the mantle place leered at the bodies.

Forensics officers determined they had died of natural causes, but as for who died first; the time was too close together to tell. They had simply . . . died together.

Sherlock and John were buried side-by-side with the other four graves. Sherlock's gravestone from all those years ago was brought forth again and John's was made of Carrara Marble. Their names were added, one made of the blackest stone and the other from white, and people would pass by without a glance. The six gravestones were silent as the days trudged by, and one spring an orb weaver spider set itself to making a web between the black stone and the white one.

Spiders make webs. Everyone knows this. Sherlock's had grown and expanded his entire life. It started taking a true pattern when he met John Watson, but John was simply several threads in the immense structure. He just helped Sherlock make sense of the rest.

XoX

_Sherlock and John stood in a white mist. They looked around and saw each other. They looked younger; both were now the ages when they had first met. Sherlock's hair was now black again; his piercing eyes still darted around. John had his stress lines and his warm smile. Sherlock and John looked silently at each other for a couple of seconds._

"_Ready for the next adventure, John?" Sherlock asked his usual excited glint in his eyes. He looked John up a down and John felt the usual sense of being deduced._

"_Oh God yes." John replied. He stood straight, back like a rod. From being bent over all those years it felt nice to stand again._

"_Could be dangerous." Sherlock continued in his impossibly deep voice. In the distance, both were thrilled to hear police sirens._

_John grins. "I wouldn't have it any other way."_

_And the two best friends, one the world's only consulting detective, the other his one and only friend, laughed ran forward into the mist for their next great adventure._

_The End_


End file.
